


Presence and Distance

by Herbrarian



Series: New Orders [12]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen Appreciation Week 2017, Duty, Gen, Haven (Dragon Age), Mage Alliance, post-Redcliffe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9159619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbrarian/pseuds/Herbrarian
Summary: Previously: Dorothea, Dorian, Varric, and Blackwall have returned from Redcliffe with a new alliance and new fears.





	1. Chapter 1

Cullen nurses his ale, wetting his lips from time to time, but not drinking. He was wholly uncertain about this Tevinter Altus, but his concern for a subtle spy seems unwarranted. For the last three hours the mage has been getting drunker and drunker on the “Southern Swill” that he can’t seem to stop himself from imbibing.

The mage had also been taking comers for games of chess and—oddly—the man’s game improved the drunker he became.

Sighing at the late hour, Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose, willing away the exhaustion hovering behind his eyes. It is late, and he has people for this.

Cullen stands and whispers a word to Jonas who has been sitting on the other side of the room, also nursing an ale. Jonas came up from South Reach sent by Arl Bryland before the Conclave to show support for the Divine. Cullen knows the boy wonders if he will ever see home, see his sister, again. Cullen feels as protective of Jonas’s hopes as if they are Cullen’s own, and it was a natural thing to accept Cassandra’s suggestion that Jonas serve as his adjutant.

Looking around the room, the Commander feels the distrust of some of the civilians each time the mage gets a little too loud. Jonas will stay to watch Altus Pavus and ensure the mage makes it to his lodgings unhindered. For the Herald’s sake, Cullen would see no harm come of the man who witnessed what she did in the _other_ Redcliffe.

Cullen steps out into the hush of the darkness. After the sounds of the singing and laughing, his ears ring in the silence. He thinks longingly of his bedroll and a cup of mint elfroot tea to dampen the headache that has been building behind his eyes since word came that the mages were on their way to Haven. But, he reflects, Dorian appears to be in rare form and the man may still have hours in front of him if left to his own devices. It is likely that those who will stay as the evening wears will be those who would like a private “word” with a Tevinter.

He stands just outside the light from the tavern’s windows, his hand rasping the stubble of his chin and cheek as he thinks. He can spare Jonas in the morning from drills, but he’d rather not: he needs as many as possible to run through the wilderness exercise he and Rylen have planned.

Absently his gaze drifts and he sees a fire pit in the distance and a shadow move. He realizes it is Varric. The dwarf had travelled with the Herald to Redcliffe; long hours on the road had made the dwarf and the Tevinter more comfortable in each other’s company.

Cullen deliberates; that might work.

He walks toward Varric’s fire. The dwarf sits in the light of the flames, taking Bianca apart and laying out various gears on a linen cloth on the ground. The weapon is down to its stock and Varric is beginning to oil and clean gears as Cullen approaches.

“Good evening, Curly,” Varric calls over his shoulder, not looking away from the task of his hands.

“Varric,” Cullen responds and crosses around the fire, his back to the tent, able to look out at the steps and the main gate. He does not bother to question Varric how the dwarf knew it was him. Cullen knows one doesn’t last around the Charta without remarkable survival skills.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Varric asks, reaching for the wooden stock and a jar of sheep’s lanolin.

Cullen sits for a moment, determining how to proceed, then decides openness best serves here.

“Dorian. In the tavern; he’s . . . “

“Drunk as a skunk?” Varric supplies when Cullen trails off. Varric takes Cullen’s quiet as consent: “Yeah, can’t say that surprises me.”

Intrigued, despite the task he set for himself, Cullen asks, “What do you mean?”

“Well, when he and the Herald just _popped_ back into existence in the castle, it was all good times, let’s destroy the Magister and save the day bullshit. Everything was normal as if they hadn’t just disappeared into . . . _nothing_ . . . and then re-appeared covered in demon gore and Red Lyrium, slick as you please.” Varric pauses as he begins to reassemble the metal aiming arm to the wood stock and looks up at Cullen. “We’ve seen some weird shit, you and I, Curly, but I’d defy you to get weirder than that.”

“What did the Herald say happened?”

“Honestly, she was barely more than catatonic. Don’t get me wrong, in public you couldn’t see it. Well, not until you looked at her eyes. It was like her mouth was saying one thing, but her eyes . . . her eyes were someplace else. Which, I guess with the stories they brought back; shit, maybe they were. All I know is the first time she looked at me – ”

“ – like you were already dead,” Cullen absently interjects, remembering when the Herald dismounted in camp.

“Yeah.” Varric returns to fitting together gears, “But then the next moment she remembers _when_ we are and she’s so damned relieved,” Varric puffs out a breath, “so it doesn’t really surprise me that Dorian’s drunk. Hell, Curly, I say let’s all get drunk and wait for the end of the world, it might go down a treat easier.”

Absently Cullen picks up one of Varric’s bolts and weighs it in his hand, considering. “Can we trust Dorian?” Cullen whispers into the night, not wanting a passing ear to overhear. “You were there; why is he willing to sever all his allegiances and take up with the Inquisition?”

At that Varric stops what he is doing and looks Cullen full in the face: “You mean why would he turn from the only home he’s ever known—the family he’s claimed—and, in the face of ultimate betrayal, why would he sever all allegiance and ties to fight some Maker-damned hole in the sky that spews demons? Shit, Curly, I don’t know; why **_would_** people do that?” Cullen blinks and shifts uncomfortably under Varric’s stare. The rogue snorts in amusement and resumes fitting gears onto the crossbow. “Yeah, Commander, I think you can trust him.”

Silence descends as Varric finishes fitting parts to Bianca.

“So, you need someone to keep an eye on him?” Varric asks casually, not looking up from his work.

“Jonas is already there,” Cullen answers, grateful that Varric has hit on his purpose, “But it is late, and they both need their beds. I was hoping you could persuade Dorian to call it a night.”

“Curly, I’m not sure dwarfs are his thing.”

Cullen startles at Varric’s inference and begins to stammer. But Varric just laughs at Cullen’s reaction and moves to get up. “I’ll see if I can drink him under the table—”

At that they hear a door slam in the lower courtyard and a clamor of voices. The guard Cullen set outside the Herald’s quarters tries to quell the noise. As both men watch, they see the Herald slip beyond the crowd, hurrying away. Both men follow the slight, retreating figure with their eyes.

“I’ll get Dorian, Commander, if you get the Herald.”

Instinctively each of them reaches out a hand to the other, shakes on it, and then parts.


	2. Chapter 2

The soldiers are still trying to disperse the crowd that greeted the Herald when she left her quarters. As he passes, he notices many of those waiting are mages. A few Templars shift around the fringe, watching. Cullen signals to his guard, indicating for them to stay and he turns to follow the Herald, leaving them behind.

He is well past Seggrit’s makeshift stall before he catches sight of her again. He keeps his distance and he catches sight of Iona just ahead of him, between him and the Herald. He joins up with the scout and falls into step with her, catching her eye and nodding in greeting. As Dorothea heads toward the hill that overlooks Haven, Cullen motions for Iona to skirt around and up the hill as he follows behind. The scout melts into the darkness and Cullen begins to climb the hill behind the Herald.

At this point, he assumes she knows he is there, but just in case he starts heavily putting down his feet as he walks, making his armor clank. The dip of the terrain hides her momentarily, but he doesn’t worry about finding her again. The glow of her hand is easy to see in the dark and, even this close to the Breach, easy to distinguish.

Cullen tops the rise. The gorse thicket is ahead of him, but so is the Herald. She sits on the large rock he remembers from that first day. The memory is uncomfortable and itchy in his brain.

“Herald?” he calls softly to her.

She doesn’t shift her face, but he can see her register his voice. She lowers her hand to her lap and stares at the ground in front of her. Heart beats pass and she settles into stillness; he is uncertain what she will do next.

“Dorothea?” he whispers. “Are you all right?”

At this she lifts her eyes to look at him, and there it is again, that look that seems to see some other him. But unlike before, this time in the dark the cloud in her gaze doesn’t lift from her vision.

“Are you?” she whispers back, her voice rough.

He registers the uncertainty in her tone. Whatever else she has brought back from Redcliffe, she has also brought this feeling of loss that clings to her shoulders. It speaks to vulnerability and raw horror; it is not what he expects from her. He steps to the rock and drops to a knee in front of her. “I am well my Lady Herald. It is late and cold; will you walk back with me?”  She shakes her head no and as she does he sees the glisten of tear tracks on her face.

Hoarsely, she says: “No. Up here I can see them all. They’re still here.” She looks beyond him to the encampment. “They haven’t fallen. I haven’t failed them.”

Cullen sits back on his heel. “No, my Lady, you have not failed. We are still here, fighting the darkness with you. We fight together.” He is no longer sure if he talks of the army or himself, but it seems an unnecessary distinction.

She closes her eyes and sniffs. With her eyes closed she scrubs at her face and with each pass of her hands she breathes deeply. Each breath comes clearer. The green pall from the anchor dims and quiets. Her eyes open and he is there, again, in them. He is there in the now and, more importantly, she is with him.

“You must think me mad.” She smiles weakly. He catches her eye and nods no, searching her face. “You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss. I see all of you dead; or dying.” And with that she shivers violently. Cullen swings his cloak off his own shoulders, drapes it around her. She begins to speak as it settles on her shoulders; he moves to sit next to her.

“When we got there, it was just Dorian and me. We were in a dungeon, a cell; I almost expected Cassandra to start screaming at me again. But instead there was water and a locked door. Men came in. We killed them. We left out the door. Then we found our way up.”

“What did you see?” he asks the question they haven’t bothered to ask yet. At the council yesterday morning after her party rode in, they had simply stuck to what was next: house the mages, find lyrium, plan the attack, gather allies, provision the army. None of them asked what she had seen . . . not after Dorian described the demon army, the fall of Orlais, the rise of the Elder One’s minions.

“Red Lyrium. Everywhere. Calling, the song like slime and oil, laying on my mind, can’t,” she shuts her eyes, shakes her head, hands in balled fists pushing into her knees, “can’t scrub it off, can’t burn it away.

“Then we found Blackwall, dying, poisoned, red eyes, so sad. He said everyone had fought, but there were too many, so many demons and Red Templars and Maleficar.”

She looks over at Cullen.

“You weren’t there. You were gone, and everyone with you,” she looks out at the encampment as if reassuring herself they are still there, too. “Josie was . . . there. But she had gone away, too. Oh, Josie, I’m so sorry . . .” Cullen reaches out a hand to her shoulder to steady her and she grasps it, clasps his fingers with her right hand, the awkwardness of the reach making her grip all the fiercer.

“Then Varric. I didn’t keep him from it, I couldn’t keep him from it. I—I knew, he, he hated it. I c-couldn’t keep it . . . and Cassandra, gone, but,” and she moans deep in her throat, a feral, ugly sound, “not Leliana. She was not gone,” Dorothea spits the sound of the word not, as if she rips it from her tongue. “She was still there, not broken but not whole.” Dorothea sobs, a soundless cry that wracks her body, her face lifted to the sky. “I failed, I failed you all, Oh, Maker.”

She squeezes her eyes tight and tears slip from between the folds. “I thought all my life that the Circles were wrong. That they were worse, that they could never bring peace and would never allow magic to serve man as long as the Chantry made magic to serve them. But I saw, I saw, I saw, I saw,” she begins to gulp in great lungsful of air and Cullen rubs his hand along her arm, reminds her to breathe deeply.

She gulps in air, eventually slowing, her fingers still tightly wrapped around his, tethering herself into the present. She continues, “I saw what we could do. I saw how we, mages can destroy the world.”

She lifts her left hand, the anchor twitching and twinkling again with her tumult: “even if we do it by not being there,” she whispers.

Cullen is stunned. This onslaught, this tumult, he has not expected this.

“Herald,” she winces at the honorific; he notices: “Dorothea. I have been a Templar, boy and man, for twenty years, the Circles,” he searches for the right words, “the Circles are a promise and a prison, the one and the together.”

He feels her still and tighten under his fingers so he gathers a breath and continues on: “They are that, but they also have nothing to do with what the Inquisition is trying to do now or with the Anchor. This world you describe, this other future, it is this Elder One’s creation. The more we delve into the truth, the more apparent it is that the work we do is to triumph over the evil he has wrought. Dorothea, the work you are doing, that will save the world.”

“How can you be so sure?” she drops her fingers from his hand. “I never thought to be a hero, to save the world; what could possibly make me so qualified? If Fiona, a Warden, the Grand Enchanter, if even she cannot be possibly more than just a mage, what possibly qualifies me for all of this,” and she gestures and the wave of her hand takes in the village from the Chantry out to the tent city.

Cullen discerns the note of despair in her tone; her questions and doubts are only reasonable.

Cullen’s brain fills with sympathy for her: the same self-censoring doubt has pulled at him more than once.

The Commander recognizes the sign of a soldier at the end of her tether: a recruit that is poised to run or to rededicate to the purpose.

He would comfort her, if he could, but at the end she would still be scared like a rabbit, ready to jump in any direction at the first sound. He has always clung to his duty. It is what he knows and what has saved him time and time again; he suspects it could do the same for her.

He gathers himself and reflects that Leliana will not appreciate what he is about to say, but he pushes that aside and plunges on: “You are qualified to do it because you are here, Lady Herald. Regardless of how you were chosen, this has been given to you to do, mage or no; it is the burden and the duty you must carry out because without you, then Redcliffe will come and we will all be doomed.”

She stiffens as he speaks and he can feel the revolt creep into her spine at his tone. But then she speaks, and her tone is angry: “You do not believe, then, that I was sent by the Maker, Commander? You surprise me.”

“I do not see why, Lady Herald; you have made no secret about your distaste for the Bride. Does it matter if I believe?” He throws out this bait and waits.

She breathes steadily into the night air, soft billows of steam flaring out of her nostrils. “Well, it will all be over soon, won’t it?” She rises and whips the cloak from around her shoulders, thrusts it into his lap, and starts down the hill. “Good night, Commander,” she throws over her shoulder and disappears into the night.

Cullen breathes a soft sigh of relief as he stands. If she is angry, even if it is at him, she will stay focused. He whistles into the night and signals with his arm in the air a recall; he is answered with a return shrill from Iona beyond the thicket.

They cannot afford for him to be soft with Dorothea, he muses as he picks his way slowly down the hill. But that is not to say he does not feel sorry for her, for what they all expect her to do. It seems likely she will be dead by the end of the month and it shouldn’t matter that she may hate him; but it does. He has always striven to be fair: in the sparring ring, in the Circle, as a Knight-Captain.

The only time he has not tried to be fair is in fighting against Maleficar and demons; and now against Dorothea. The feeling does not sit well with him. He should be her ally, not her adversary; but he can see no way around it if she is to be the soldier they need her to be.

It is already late, and he will not get enough sleep by the morning by half: perhaps one more stop before he retires for the evening. Cullen turns outside the village gates and moves toward the stables.


	3. Chapter 3

Thom leans against the tree trunk and looks up into the sky. If he had hoped that the Breach would get less alien, he has sorely misunderstood the nature of how eldritch this entire situation was. He watches the guard rotation move up the road to the old bridge and then back again on evening rounds, grateful for the predictability of it, the saneness of that routine.

The ale that he had after dinner leeched out of his system hours ago, and the flask of brandy in his chest pocket is a pleasant, reassuring weight. But, too often he has used the bottom of a bottle as a way to understand the world around him and he would have this time be different, if he can. He pats his gambeson, feels the metal press into the linen of his undershirt.

They have been back barely more than a day and he has not seen anything of Dorothea. The first day had not been a surprise: there was business to tend to, of course. But this morning she had walked to the parade ground and he watched her hesitate on the edge of the horse encampment. But, after a moment, she had turned firmly and moved straight into the village and not come back out. He had waited on the edge of the training ring, near the forge, for the rest of the day, hoping she would come back out. The Seeker and the Commander had been hard at work all afternoon in drills and working with runners and workers to erect tents. He had heard from one of the Scouts who had ridden in hard just before dinner that the mages from Redcliffe—the main thrust of the force—were no more than two days out. The village is fit to bursting with anticipation.

He has never had much to do with mages before the last few months. Oh, he’s encountered the occasional hedge witch or wildling, bought his share of clandestine healing potions, but nothing like dealing with Dorothea, or an Apostate like Solas, a Circle Mage like Mme. de Fer, an Altus like Pavus. If he had been placing a bet before they came back from Redcliffe, he would have assumed that the advisors would welcome the help and the chance to pull in the wild force of magic in Thedas. But, the closer their party got back to Haven, the tenser Varric got. Finally, only a day out, Thom had confronted the dwarf, asked him point blank what was going on. Since coming back from the tear in time, Dorothea had been nigh on catatonic and Dorian swung manically from exuberance to sullenness; whatever the dwarf knew, Thom was determined to know it, to protect Dorothea, if he could. The idea that the Seeker and the Commander might try to wrest away control of the Inquisition’s forces, or that they would break away with the army and head in search of the Templars . . . it was a wild tale of possibilities Varric wove. Fantastical, even; except that for an old soldier like Thom he had seen it before when the high command splits and the military takes it into their heads and hands to be the right—as well as the might—in the world.

It was the other reason why Thom had not ventured into the village in search of Dorothea at dinner, choosing to stay close to the army encampment mess tents. He had eaten with a group of soldiers, fresh out of the sparring grounds, who were supping with their captains. He had enjoyed the easy camaraderie of military men and women, taking their ease at the end of a long training day. Some of them seemed aware that the mage alliance had been made, but none appeared to have any indication that they were on the march. It was not an unpromising sign.

Of course, if it was Thom doing the leaving, he would wait until plans were under way to march on the Breach and use that as an opportunity to pack up the military encampment and put it on the move before the Nightingale could articulate a change. But, he also knows that, unlike himself, the Commander is not a complete bastard.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thom sees the man himself come abreast of the little hut next to the forge. He stands there, the light from the windows casting his profile into dimness. His hands are at rest on his sword and he scans the woods. Thom wonders and has his suspicion confirmed when the fair-haired man slides his gaze to the rise he is on, notices Thom, and begins to turn to the trees where Thom sits.

As the Commander begins to climb the rise he calls to the guards down the end of the lane, raising a salutation from the men. Thom shifts and straightens his back against the tree he leans against; his palms begin to lightly sweat and he itches to stand and prepare to draw. But he disciplines himself to remain sitting and wait for the Commander to approach.

The former Templar stops a few feet away, just shy of the crest of the roll of the landscape where Thom sits. It is a courtesy, Thom realizes, as it puts the other man at near eye level instead of looming over him.

“Good evening, Commander,” Thom calls into the night.

“Good evening, Ser Warden,” the younger man calls back respectfully. He can’t be more than 35, Thom muses, so he is at least ten years Thom’s junior; but what Thom may lack in speed in the sparring ring, he makes up for with watchful cunning. They both got that question out of the way the first week Thom was in Haven, and the two have had a cordial relationship since. The Commander had invited Thom to demonstrate many of the feint techniques he had used to their draw. Too many years of watching his back for the hangman’s noose left Thom with wary senses for danger and a strong willingness to fight dirty, always useful things to know on a battlefield.

His senses, though, tell him that caution is unwarranted here: the Commander’s reason to be here is not clear to Thom, but it isn’t to challenge him. “How can I be of service to you, Ser Rutherford?”

The man gestures to the ground near Thom and Thom wordlessly invites with his hand for the other man to take his ease. He does so, saying as he lowers himself to the ground, “If titles are to be used, then just Commander, please, but I would be pleased for you to call me Cullen.”

Thom is taken aback by the informality of his tone, but then he realizes he has never been with the man alone, not out of direct hearing and sight of his army. Here on the hill outcrop, they are quite alone in the dark and wyrd light of the Breach. “Gordon, then, Cullen,” and he holds out his hand to shake it. The Commander slides off his glove from his right hand and returns the gesture. He then turns to look out into the night, holding the glove in his bare hand, rubbing the stitching seam along the knuckles.

“How are you fairing since your return from Redcliffe, Gordon?” The Commander’s tone is soft, but Thom does not fall into a false impression that this is a welfare call. He weighs his words carefully.

“Redcliffe was successful enough. The Nightingale’s people moved into the castle on schedule and supported us as we confronted Alexius. We got out with our lives and we came home with allies and a prisoner: it was a good day, Commander.”

“Ah, yes, Cassandra and I could not have asked for a better outcome. All of our assets worked well together in the field, coordinated their objectives, and came home. I’m sure you’ve heard that our new allies travel to us even now. But,” the Commander clears his throat, “that was not to what I referred. Varric seems impervious to death and destruction—he would have to be since he followed around in Hawke’s wake—” Cullen says in an almost aside, “but Dorian is even now three sheets to the wind in the tavern and taking it all rather hard. I simply wondered how you fared with what you’d seen.”

Thom almost chuckles, but he refrains from displaying the amusement that is in his mind. The Commander is wondering if he is drunk. “My flask is still quite full, Cullen, if you’d like a nightcap . . .” and Thom moves the flask from his pocket, prepares to hand it across.

But Cullen stays the action with a hand in the air. “No, thank you. I certainly hope I have not caused offense in asking,” Thom grunts wordlessly, the smile now playing on his lips to show no hard feelings, as he re-pockets the flask, “I just wanted to seek out your help, if you would be willing,” Cullen finishes.

“If there are things to be done to help the Inquisition, then I would see it done, Commander. I have sworn my life to the Herald’s cause, and I would not renegotiate that vow,” Thom speaks with fervent determination, the sound of the guards along the road the only sound in the distance: the forge has been bedded down for the night and Harritt has called the day for the apprentices.

So it takes Thom by surprise when the Commander says cautiously: “Is that usual for a Grey Warden? To swear allegiances outside defending against the Blight?”

The question is spoken softly, but it is pointed and Thom immediately realizes his mistake.

_Shit. Think fast, Rainier, or this will all be fucking done by sunrise._

“No. It isn’t Commander. But there are times when a man cannot simply sit by and watch others defend the weak and do nothing himself. Wardens expect the rest of the world to dance when the Blight sings the tune; but there is no Blight right now, Cullen, just a bloody big hole in the sky and a young, slip of a mage girl who has enough heart to believe she can make the world better for it. I will not sit idly by.”

Thom watches the other man’s expression and feels the moment in the dark when he relaxes. “I would not ask you to, Gordon. In fact, I am hoping you can help the Herald. I just came from retrieving her off the mountainside. She has headed back to her cabin, but I do not think she should be on her own.

“She is in need of a friend. I was hoping you might check in on her and let her talk through it.”

Thom’s head spins with the request. “Are you asking me to make a social call? Isn’t that more the Ambassador’s area than yours?”

Cullen stiffens at the sound of the laughter in Thom’s tone, but he simply says: “She is our head and the face of our Alliance with the mages. I do not think that either the Lady Seeker or myself could manage their cooperation as she has.

“If that were not enough, she is the most important weapon against this Elder One and if those pressures weren’t enough, the fate of Orlais may rely on her ability to negotiate around a civil war 20 years in the making.

“I am the Commander here and I will see to the morale of all of my soldiers. I worry for the resilience of her mind in the face of the strength of her will and the task set for her.” Cullen turns in the night to look at Thom, “Will you help her, Gordon?”

“Why me?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think better of them. He knows why, but he wants someone else—even this soldier—to confirm it before he blunders in.

“Because she cares for you, I think; it has not gone unnoticed by Cassandra or myself.” Cullen pulls his glove back on, focusing his gaze to his hand so he does not have to look Thom in the eye.

“Mmm. Does anyone else know?” Thom asks blithely, the answer strangely important to him.

“I cannot say about Leliana or Josephine; they keep their own counsel. Although, I would be surprised if the Ambassador would ask for the Herald to be publicly matched with you, but you are one of the Inner Circle and, until Dorian’s preferences are more widely known, it is likely people will try to pair her with the Tevinter for the scandal of it. I doubt anyone would expect—” Cullen stops short, the words dying on his tongue.

But Thom knows where he is going, and finishes the thought for him: “that anyone would expect her to take up with an old solider, and a Grey Warden at that. Ha, yes, I imagine that would send Orlais reeling; you might as well pair her with Varric.” Thom chuckles in his chest, amused at the thought of what Ser Chapuis would have made of all of this.

“So will you?” the younger man has waited for an answer and Thom is startled to realize it is necessary for him.

“Of course, Cullen. She is important, as you say, for the reasons you say,” Thom responds as both men start to gain their feet.

“I hope she is important for more than just that, Ser Warden,” a note of caution has entered the Commander’s tone, “I would hate to think anyone sees her as just as a trifle or a trophy.” The Commander’s sword hand rests deceptively calm on his pommel and a watchfulness enters his stance.

Thom recognizes a situation that needs diffusion when he sees it: “Of course,” and he slaps the Commander on the shoulder, “Dorothea is everything, Cullen.” Thom passes the Commander and descends the hill in front of him out into the night.

Redcliffe had been damn odd and unsettling, and Thom Rainier does not do well with odd; but coaxing the worries out of a woman—particularly a pretty woman—that is something Thom Rainier can do.  

He heads toward the gates of the village, taking his leave of the Commander at the entrance to the tent city and the parade grounds, leaving the other man looking after him in the gloom.

**Author's Note:**

> Create Order #11  
> For more on this story's creation, checkout [Appendix, Chapter 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6612037/chapters/18520750)


End file.
